CITY ISLAND LINES
She could remember the first time, the first sign. Like she’d been swatted by a careless kitten. Three thready lines across her cheek- a Morse code of scabs. When she’d asked Noah if he remembered how she’d got them, he smiled and said, ‘No… but it’s probably nothing to worry about.’ Maya appreciated his support but secretly worried that her clumsiness had scuffed her once again. She often had mishaps that left mementos on her skin. Maya silently said her (millionth) fervent ‘thank you’ for Noah. After her humiliation and noxious divorce, Noah had restored her from the ruins, made her feel substantial, worthwhile, meaningful, loved. He was gentle and thoughtful and even-keeled. She had always admired (even been a little bit jealous of) his ability to remain confident, calm and composed when things turned tense or heated. He never apologised unnecessarily, never backed down and never resorted to animosity or aggression. Yet he always managed to smooth the waters and resolve the situation. She still had the pill bottles left over from those anxiety drenched days and sleepless nights. Thankfully, she maintained this stockpile primarily as a reminder of how far she’d come. Rarely if ever did she dip into reserves. But today it had been tempting. The day had started well enough. Brad, the director, had let everyone know that a new staff member was starting in the Outreach/PR department. Her name was Elle, and she came with an impressive pedigree. He liked to use words like this as a sort of pun, since their organisation dealt with animals seeking placement. Maya looked forward to having someone with whom to share the work load—and maybe a friend with whom to collaborate and chat. Elle arrived and had an instant impact. She was small, slender, elegant and articulate. People were instinctively impressed, and Maya felt a twinge of jealousy. Nonetheless, she made a point of introducing herself immediately and offering any sort of assistance that Elle might need. “Oh, I am quite self-sufficient,’ cooed Elle. ‘I’ve settled into bigger operations than this one quite easily. No need to distract yourself from the important work that I am sure you have on your desk.’ Maya felt stung, as if she’d be swatted. No deep wounds, but a swift swipe. She’d told Noah about the encounter and joked that maybe this was the origin of the strange stripes on her cheek. ‘Ah,’ he’d said, ‘like a cat fight, only with a kitten.’ Trying to put her pride aside, Maya determined to try again, and the following day, she peeked around the corner of Elle’s office. Aiming to seem friendly and helpful, she asked, ‘How are things? Have you found everything alright? I’m heading to the breakroom, and I’d be happy to give you an in-depth tour of the coffee options. I can show you where all the creamers and sweeteners hide out.’ Elle only half looked up from her desk and said, ‘Oh, I don’t ‘do’ coffee. I only drink water or tea. Better for my skin and sleep. But you go ahead and enjoy whatever you like to drink.’ Maya felt slapped once again. Her cheeks burned as she recoiled from Elle’s office. She retreated to her desk and eschewed her usual coffee. The rest of the day seemed tinged and Maya was relieved to slink out the door a little before 5:00. When Noah arrived home that evening, he paused and cocked his head. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘Why?’ said Maya. ‘Just asking. You look, well, sort of flushed,’ Noah replied. Maya scuttled to the bathroom and could see that he was right. Her cheeks bore bright red patches, like a cockatiel she’d once wanted to adopt. Noticing this made her blush all the more. She felt wretched and weak. In an attempt to lift her own spirits, Maya decided to dress herself up a bit the next day. She found some colourful tights and a knee length skirt she hadn’t worn in years. After adding a red cardigan atop a plain white T-shirt, she slipped on her favourite Mary Janes and happily headed to work, feeling bright and renewed. The first person she met as she walked into the office was Elle. ‘Good morning, Elle, ‘ chirped Maya brightly. ‘Wow,’ said Elle. ‘How old are those shoes? Is that outfit workplace appropriate? I wasn’t sure whether there was a dress code. So I stuck to a professional look, but I guess anything goes around here.’ With that, Elle adjusted the scarf at her neck and sauntered off to her office. Maya longed for an enormous crater to open up before her so she could fling herself into it. Once again, her day was sullied with self- doubt, and she nearly bolted out the door at 4:45. By the time she walked through her own front door, she had blisters singeing the soles of her feet, like a bear she had read about in the California fires whose melted paws were treated for months. Over dinner, Noah listened to the latest tale. He gently cradled one of her feet in his hand, kissed her wounds, tried to heal her, tried to make her new. Sagely and gently, he advised her, ‘Let this go. Elle is clearly insecure and dumping her toxic fears on you. Just let it go.’ ‘Easy for him to say’, thought Maya. Her previously cosy work place had become a gladiator’s arena, and she felt physically and psychologically macerated. That night in bed, Maya’s ego festered, her feet burned and her skin felt rough and scaly- like a snake itching to shed its skin. Beside her Noah snored softly, while she revisited Elle’s slights and her own shortcomings. Eventually, she admitted defeat and padded to the bathroom in search of the sleeping pills she had cached. Flicking on the bathroom light and facing the mirror, she was startled to see something protruding from her left ear. Looking more closely, she realised that, whatever it was, it was moving, squirming, alive. Reflexively, she grabbed at the wriggling thing and plucked it from her ear. Overcoming a visceral revulsion, she looked more closely at the malicious little beast. It emitted a foul odour and a pitiful high-pitched whine. Its trembling legs, sharp claws and sinister proboscis flailed wildly. On its slimy trunk were dull green scales and the odd greasy grey feather. It had morose bulging eyes wide with terror. Its panicked aspect was both repulsive and compelling. Maya was mesmerised. She’d never seen anything so repugnant. And yet, she realised, this pest had made a temporary home in her head. With the miniature monster still between her fingertips, she squeezed the pill bottle between her knees using her free hand to awkwardly twist off the top. After emptying the contents into the sink, she flung the creature inside, rapidly twisting the childproof lid to imprison it. She tiptoed back to bed and spent another few minutes planning. Then she sank into a deep and peaceful sleep. At work the next day, Maya rehearsed her lines and checked on the pill bottle frequently. Finally, she felt ready- or as ready as she would ever be. Slipping back into her sandals (necessitated by yesterday’s blisters), she pocketed the pill bottle and walked calmly into Elle’s office. “Hi Elle, we missed you at the meeting just now.’ Elle raised a supercilious eyebrow. ‘And what meeting would that be?’ ‘Oh, Brad set up a coffee chat with Mrs. Preston. She’s given quite a lot to other animal charities. So he thought we might have a chance.’ Trying to don the unfamiliar mantle of confidence, Maya said, ‘I thought you knew. Brad invited a few of us to meet with her, because he wanted his A-team to make the pitch. Actually, things went well. She made some murmurs, and I think that Brad is just seeing her to her limo. Yes, if you look out your window, you’ll see them now.’ Elle, sprung from her chair and swiveled her head to the window. Scanning frantically, she could not see what Maya was referring to. As Elle turned away, Maya released the tiny beast from the bottle and watched it hover momentarily. Its movements were furtive yet purposeful. Once liberated from its prison, it honed in on Elle and immediately scuttled into her left ear. That evening over dinner, Noah looked up at Maya with his honey-coloured eyes and said, ‘You are glowing! You look even more beautiful than ever. ’ Then he asked her how things were going at work ‘You told me that I needed to let it go’, she replied, ‘and I did.’
0 Comments
My friend Grace arrived just as dusk was dusting the treetops. The air was so cold that it stung my nose, as I opened the front door to chivvy her inside, her head wreathed in the frosty fog of her own breath. As she scurried in, I couldn’t help but notice her hat and matching gloves. They were splendid: deep delicious burgundy-coloured cashmere with delicately ribbed cuffs. The hat had clean lines free of unnecessary adornments. ‘What fabulous hat and gloves, ‘ I trilled, ‘such a glorious colour!’ 'D’you like them?’ she asked girlishly. ‘I couldn’t resist when I saw them. I was supposed to be shopping for a gift, but I ended up treating myself instead,’ she finished somewhat sheepishly. “I wasn’t 100% sure about the colour though.’ Here, as usual, I had to agree with her. Grace had a brilliant aesthetic eye. Her outfits always looked elegant yet relaxed. Her make-up was so understated that I often wondered if she was wearing any. However, just this once, she had missed the mark. Grace had poreless porcelain skin with lapis lazuli eyes. She blushed easily and winningly, which made her look like an angel. Her white-gold hair crowned the whole cherubic portrait perfectly. All of her features were dazzling- and, in this case, simply ill-suited to the rich saturated red of her accessories. ‘Oh, the colour is absolutely stunning!’ I replied. My skin was dark and uneven, my hair a weird sort of hennaed chestnut (thanks to my latest hairdresser’s experiment), and my eyes cast in muddy brown. But in spite of these features, which irked me daily, Grace’s hat and gloves would have suited me perfectly. We were both wise enough to change the subject. We’d been friends forever and had no shortage of other topics to discuss. Grace was worried about her teenage niece’s dalliance with drugs, and I wanted to rummage through the rubble of my latest crashed relationship – seeking the black box that would reveal how and where things had gone wrong. We happily sipped our wine as the hours slipped by, and suddenly Grace’s husband was tapping his horn, beckoning her back to him. The time was always sweet but too short. Knowing we would meet again soon, Grace donned her handsome camel hair coat and grabbed her big leather bag. ‘After all that lovely wine, I’ll just visit the ‘loo before I go, ‘ she called to me, as she disappeared down the hall. Then we hugged, and she trotted out into the darkness and the waiting car. It wasn’t until a day or two later, when I opened the linen closet to get a fresh towel, that I noticed it: a slip of paper bearing Grace’s scholarly script. ‘The colour is much better on you - beautiful things for a beautiful friend’ And below the note, neatly stacked, lay the hat and gloves. 15 Jan 2018 Martha gazed fondly across the table at Myrna. It had been a lovely afternoon and evening: a good game of Scrabble followed by several hands of poker, all of which Martha had won. As always, Martha half suspected that Myrna let her win.
Myrna was like that. So kind and generous. She always listened patiently, agreed with Martha’s views, and brought tea and biscuits. That helped with the pills. Martha had quite a few pills to take-- far too many if you asked Martha, but none of the doctors ever asked Martha. They just kept adding pills to her daily list and telling her to quit smoking. Myrna, on the other hand, was far more agreeable, far more considerate, gently reminding Martha when it was time for her next pill and never haranguing her the way the children did – on the rare occasions when they bothered to visit. Thankfully, in Myrna, Martha had found someone with a more human touch. ‘Well, I guess I’ll head to bed now,’ said Martha. ‘Good night, Martha.’ replied Myrna. ‘Don’t forget your bedtime tablets.’ Martha thanked Myrna, took her pills, cleaned her teeth, and changed for bed. Nestling under the blanket, Martha thought back fondly to the first time she’d met Myrna. ‘ Martha, this is MYRNA,’ the social worker had said. ‘That stands for My Robotic Nursing Assistant.’ But Myrna had turned out to be so much more. ‘I must not forget Myrna’s monthly maintenance appointment’, thought Martha as she sunk into sleep. ‘Where would I be without her?’ 8 Jan 2019 ‘They don’t know that I have the F-ing key! I could trigger the F-ing alarm and lure them out, and then you could snatch ‘em!’
Vinny paced compulsively back and forth on Island Avenue. Wildly gesticulating, cars had to swerve to avoid his erratic path. Intermittently and unwittingly he clutched his crotch for emphasis. Vinny was bellowing at Robby, his business partner and best friend since kindergarten. Vinny’s vitriol continued to erupt into the oversized mobile phone that he maniacally clutched to one ear. After a few more minutes of ranting and scheming, Vinny decided to take matters into his own chubby hands. He angrily pocketed the phone and lumbered off toward the seafood restaurant's storeroom. With the aforementioned key, he quietly opened the large metal door, and with daintiness that belied his lumpy frame, he tiptoed between the stacked boxes and folded chairs. Honing in on a rustling snuffling sound near the back, he sidled ever closer until he spotted his prey: a scrawny specimen wearing an incongruously large baseball cap. Arming himself with a folded chair, he strode out into the open space and confronted the would-be thief. ‘What the ‘ell you doin’ here?’ he barked. ‘ I’m ‘onna call the PO-lice!’ The mousy intruder leapt sideways and squeaked, ‘Omigod! You scared me half to death! What are you doing here?!’ A little taken aback by the culprit’s familiarity, Vinny took a step away and craned his head forward. ‘Alvin?! What the ‘ell!?’ An awkward silence ensued. Finally, Vinny found his voice and a little bit of composure. ’Alvin, what are you doing in here?’ Alvin, now slightly less terrified but no less tense replied, ‘Well, uh… I know how much Maria likes oysters… she …like…thinks they’re…. uh… sexy… if you catch my drift…. And, well, Vinny, I was, like, thinking, like, to ask her… well, you know… like, if she wanted to get married.’ Alvin’s pasty face had flushed crimson, and he was staring at his feet, which shuffled frantically from side to side. Maria!? – What a piece of work she’d turned out to be! That was a chapter in his life that Vinny was trying hard to forget – only it was difficult, what with those alimony cheques every month. Then, like a magnificent sunrise after a tumultuous storm, an idea blossomed in Vinny’s mind. ‘Hey, man,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘I get where you’re coming from. I know how she is, and … I really want her to be happy… right?! So let’s you and me pack up these oysters, and… hey, here, have one of these special bottles of Spumante – really sets the mood- if you know what I mean!’ Here Vinny scrunched up one eye in an awkward and unappealing wink. Leery at first but desperate to escape the threatening bulk of Vinny, Alvin acquiesced and shimmied off with box and bottle in hand. Vinny watched the wiry little weasel scurry away. Then, smugly jangling his keys, he strutted back to the front of the restaurant. Under the canopy, he rang Robby again. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he chuckled, ’Just a rat caught in a trap.’ With that, he entered the bar and poured himself a large glass of bourbon. It had turned into an F-ing great day after all. 23 Oct 2018 Irene was inquisitive. Always had been. It was her nature. Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie had been her staples as an early reader, and she knew that this had honed her skills in finding mysteries all around her and solving them. She considered this her true talent, which she tried to utilise for the betterment of others. As she removed a jumble of socks and shirts and shorts from the dryer (it was her turn to do the washing this week), she realised that it had been some time since she’d solved a mystery. Was she becoming inattentive? Was she losing her edge? Was life getting too settled? These questions troubled her as she peeled apart T-shirts bound by static – she had forgotten to add the dryer sheets again. As she tugged on a particularly tenacious white shirt with some sort of beer logo on it, she noticed a single red hair.
Irene was perplexed. She had always been a natural blonde; well, pretty natural anyway. This hair was nowhere near her hue. As she looked closer, she found several more of the offending hairs in the lint trap. These were hairs from a true redhead. Neither tinted nor treated. They were silky and enviable and suggested seductive ruby tresses. Irene was confounded. How had these offending copper strands attached themselves to Bruce’s white T-shirt? Neither of them knew anyone with such lustrous red hair. And Bruce had never mentioned any redheads in the office. Yet there they were: clues in her latest mystery. Irene was suspicious. At dinner, Bruce was his usual self: affectionate and amusing. Still, Irene got the feeling that he was hiding something. Worse than that, he made no mention of their anniversary, which was today. That was unlike him. When he went to take the rubbish out (it was his turn this week), she grabbed his mobile phone and jabbed at the SMS/Text icon. She had to scroll quickly but soon found a short exchange with someone called Maxine. Bruce: Can I come on Thursday? Maxine: Of course. I am free any time on Thursday and looking forward to seeing you. Bruce: Perfect. Please don’t mention our plan to anyone, ok? Maxine:Of course! I understand and will be discreet. They must have met on Thursday, because the next thread read: Bruce: ‘Thanks for the amazing time today. I’ll see you again Friday. As I stressed, it is very important that Irene does not find out.’ Maxine: Don’t worry ! I’ll keep our secret! Glad you are happy and satisfied. J Irene was irate! How could Bruce cheat on her with Maxine (who was Maxine anyway!?)? And especially on the eve of their anniversary. Bruce returned from his rubbish expedition, and Irene was fuming. ‘I have a headache, and I am going to sleep’ she huffed. Bruce was taken aback. ‘But don’t you want to celebrate our anniversary?’ he spluttered? Irene was exasperated. ‘You have some nerve!’ she barked. ‘Wait here,’ Bruce replied, and he dashed back out the door to the car. He returned with a squirming bundle that he gently placed in Irene’s arms. A small, velvety, red head with liquid amber eyes gazed up at Irene, as she stammered some senseless syllables. ‘An Irish Setter puppy—like we’ve always talked about,’ cooed Bruce. ‘Happy Anniversary!’ Irene was elated, and she had solved another mystery. Rose’s first memories were of snuggling up in his arms and sleeping. This she did frequently, as she was the runt, prematurely ejected from the family fold by her mother and immediately adopted by Bill. From the start, Bill took her everywhere with him. When he ate, she curled up on the napkin in his lap. When he slept, he tucked her into one of his big wooly socks and laid her next to his pillow.
It was just the two of them then. Bill was a widower with no children, and so he had nothing but time and affection for little Rose, his chocolate morsel as he called her. They played endless games together, including one where Bill would shoot rubber bands and Rose would gleefully chase the unpredictable projectiles until she was exhausted and would collapse in a happy heap at his feet. They especially enjoyed walks along the beach. As a well-bred Labrador, she knew not to chase geese or seagulls, although she dearly wanted to. Instead, she found delight in surging through curling waves to retrieve pebbles that Bill would toss for her. She would triumphantly return with the small stones and deposit them at Bill’s feet - celebrating with a satisfying whole-body shake to rid herself of the scratchy sea water that clung to her rich coat. Before clambering back into their car, Bill would gently wash her feet with clean water, tenderly removing any salt or sand stuck between her toes. On one of these joyous jaunts, Bill met a chatty young woman with chestnut hair as lustrous as Rose’s. The pair walked and talked intently leaving Rose to amuse herself. She nearly lunged at an unsuspecting seagull just to get Bill’s attention but thought better of it in the end. One walk led to another, and quickly the two two-leggeds were holding hands and knocking shoulders. Rose sniffed a saccharin sweetness. Lizette moved in with Bill not long thereafter but quickly decided to leave Bill and Rose to their beach walks, preferring to chat on the phone or rearrange the household furniture. After some months, Rose realised that Bill’s breath rattled and his stride had shortened. Their beach visits became briefer and briefer, until they ceased entirely. Rose committed her days to lying at Bill’s feet or attentively chaperoning him on his infrequent wobbles within the house. Eventually, her time was simply spent guarding the foot of his bed. Then, suddenly, the bed was empty. Lizette began bustling officiously about the house. The dry husk of sweetness that she had maintained until now fell away to reveal a thick and oily mean streak. She grabbed Rose by her soft red collar and shoved her into the car. Rose knew the road to the vet’s office, where she had always been greeted with treats and hugs. This time, however, the mood was dark. No one greeted her. She was taken to a back room, where a young man in an ill-fitting white coat simply said, ‘I’m sorry, Rose.’ As she closed her eyes and relinquished her final breath, she could not have known that reincarnation, the great leveler, would return her to the earth on two legs. Lizette, in contrast, would return on six. 7 Aug 2018 I am an infant. I wriggle and roll and sleep, then repeat the cycle. Finally, I awake and register my surroundings. I am an orphan, but I am not alone. I am jolted and goaded by siblings. Eventually, in a mad stampede, we coalesce and make a break for it. Though our stubby limbs are ill-suited to the task, we surge forward and run (or waddle) the gauntlet. I am a victor. I have led the charge and survived the challenge. Many others were not so lucky. I plunge into the safety and escape of the sea. I am a surfer. I ride the swells and eddies. I dance on the currents. I allow myself to drift away from the shore, the only home I’ve known. I am an athlete. In spite of my ungainly appearance on land, I am full of grace and magic when I move through the water. I am an explorer. I let the tides carry me where they will. I embrace the joy of the journey and revel in the experience. I am an adult… at last. I feel a deep urge to nest- to start a family. Instinct tells me to go home and also tells me how to get there. I am a connoisseur. My voyage opens new avenues, and I am attracted by shimmering opportunities. I lunge for a particularly enticing morsel. Snap! I have it. But I also have a sharp stinging pain as something tensile wraps itself around my limbs. I am a sinking ship. My limbs grow ever weaker and more painful. The effort is monumental, but something drives me forward—or pulls me along. Finally, I spot the familiar shore and use my last reserves to haul out, exhausted, on to the sand. I am a captive. Suddenly, I am grabbed, lifted, wrenched from my home, transported. The smells and sounds are so peculiar, unfamiliar, unwelcome. I am a patient. ‘Damaged beyond repair’ ‘Must be amputated’. Lights, needles, tubes, sutures. Emerging from a strange sleep, I find that I have less pain and fewer limbs. I am a survivor. I learn to adapt to my new circumstances—within my body and without. My world shrinks down until I almost completely fill the remaining space. I am an educator. They say that I am a victim and an ambassador. ‘Perils of plastic’ ‘Clean up our oceans’, they tell children or anyone who will listen. I am a prisoner, serving a life sentence for someone else’s crime. I am a sea turtle, but I will never see the sea again. 19 June 2018 Eve dragged herself despondently through the dark and dusty alley. Slick brick walls loomed on either side, making her feel trapped and desperate. She trudged on, smoke coating her throat and weariness clawing at her limbs.
Just as she had resigned herself to surrender, to lying down in the road and abandoning herself to exhaustion and extinction, she spotted a tall, white wooden, gate. Crawling now, expending her last reserves, she inched her way forward and heaved her shoulder against the gate. Three times she flung herself into the endeavour, and on the third thrust, the gate relented. The momentum of her effort sent her tumbling into a wondrous garden ringed by a mercurial forest. As she slowly rose to her feet, she was suffused with a sense of deep peace in this verdant realm of abundance. She could hear the colours and see the sounds. She could smell the flavours and taste the aromas. All of her senses were suddenly engaged and interwoven. The sun was honey-coloured and drenched the scene in sweetness and warmth. The air was heady with the rich green scent of freshly mown grass. Colour seemed to vibrate within each flower and generate an intoxicating melody. Breathing felt like sipping effervescent music. The effect was dizzyingly delicious. Turning her head, she noticed a tall elegant bird walking toward her. His aquamarine feathers were silky and iridescent. His legs were slender yet strong. Atop his long lithe neck perched a face that was wise and welcoming. He approached with grace and fluidity and immediately engaged her in conversation. He spoke a language of unique and mellifluous words, and, much to her surprise, she understood him perfectly. They strolled amicably through the garden, as he described some of the spectacular plants and fascinating creatures that she saw. Finally, she asked him, ‘Where am I?’ ‘In the garden,’ her replied. ‘But where is that?’ she persisted. ‘Where is has always been,’ he smiled. With that, he vanished into the kaleidoscopic forest. As he disappeared, she rubbed her eyes to make sure that this wasn’t some sort of mirage. Then, she woke slowly and serenely—like someone whose questions have finally been answered. When the nurse appeared and re-introduced herself for the umpteenth time, Eve’s previous frustration had evaporated. Now peace blanketed the small airless room. The nurse asked if she wanted anything for the pain. Instead of her usual vehement refusal, she said, ‘Yes. Yes. I want to go back to the garden.’ 22 May 2018 She squinted through the view-finder and wrinkled her nose in irritation. Some clueless goon kept botching up her otherwise glorious panorama of sun, sea, and sky. For her, a camera focused the world in a way that allowed her to appreciate its beauty while keeping a safe distance.
For as long as she could remember, people had wanted to put her in front of the camera. She was not conventionally pretty but instead disconcertingly beautiful, her striking features somehow woven harmoniously together to create a captivating face. However, she detested this attention, hated being valued merely for her appearance. So she turned the camera around and lodged herself firmly behind the lens, where she felt safe and unobserved. Today, she was trying to capture an image of the sinking sun soaking the seaside scene in lustrous platinum splashes. The reflections off the tide pools contrasted perfectly with the velvety stone surfaces to project alternating facets of light and dark. But, for some reason, this annoying man continued to crouch over the smallest pool, right in the centre of her frame. No matter how she angled herself or her lens, he remained firmly rooted within the scene, confounding her attempts to capture the moment’s magic. Trying to suppress her frustration and remain calm and diplomatic, she strode purposefully toward the man, asking if he would mind stepping slightly to the right so that she could take her picture. As she drew closer, she saw that the man, wearing the thickest glasses she had ever seen, was joyously peering at crabs and starfish in the small shallow pool. He raised his gaze and started to apologise. His seafoam green eyes halted her mid-stride. He had an inner radiance and beamed at her as he explained that, due to a progressive condition, his eyesight waned daily but that he took great pleasure in observing these tiny creatures whose impressive hardiness enabled them to survive a life of extremes, not unlike himself. She struggled to politely explain the image she was trying to catch, with the dwindling sunlight reflecting off the rocks and pool surfaces. He delighted in her description and thanked her for sharing her vision, since he was not sure how much longer he would have his. Then he enthusiastically, but inaccurately extended his hand to shake hers. ’Of course, ‘she thought, ‘he can’t really see me.’ Suddenly, a small boy materialized behind her, smiled sheepishly and took the man gently by the elbow, guiding him back up the beach. She drove home slowly, without having taken her photo. Over dinner, she ruminated on how to convey her vision and images to the man using syllables rather than pixels. This occupied her thoughts until she sank into a deep dreamless sleep. She awoke suddenly with a solution. Excited she drove back to the tide pools eager to meet the man and share her revelation. He was not there. She returned the next day, and the next, and the next, but she never saw him again. 24 April 2018 The little girl pushed the front door shut behind her and made her way to the chair. The leather was worn to a velvety soft state, and she happily clambered up into its comforting cushiony expanse. Sitting cross-legged, with her giant colouring book open on her lap, she looked tiny, like a leprechaun, dwarfed by the high back and overstuffed armrests.
‘How was school?’ her mother trilled from the kitchen, and without waiting for a response, she continued, ‘I’m just reheating that meatloaf and gravy for your supper. I hope that’s okay.’ Involuntarily, the little girl scowled, turning her slight smile into a fierce frown. It had already been a pretty trying day. Once again, she had scored 100% on her math quiz. That wasn’t the trying part. That she had expected. What was tiresome and troublesome was that the teacher had announced this fact to the whole class and, once again, had used the word ‘gifted’, when making this unwelcome announcement. The inescapable consequence was that she was accosted at lunch break. The package of M&M’s in her lunchbox was instantly snatched as was her peanut butter and jelly sandwich—the latter was then smeared up and down her white T-shirt. All in all, she felt she’d gotten off pretty lightly this time, but it did mean that she hadn’t much lunch left. So, by this time, she was hungry, and the prospect of chewy two-day old meatloaf and glutinous grey gravy was not a welcome one. She lowered her head and took out a brown pencil, with which she started to sketch energetically. After a few seconds, she heard a racket emanating from the kitchen followed by her mother’s sanitized version of profanity. ‘Drat and double darn! The meatloaf has just fallen on the floor. Now how did that happen?’ The little girl looked up from her colouring book momentarily. Just a rhetorical question she concluded and dropped back to her task again. This time, she chose a pinkish pencil and began to draw intently. ‘Well, I guess I could make you a hot dog. I know you like that. At least you can still enjoy the gravy with some of last night’s green beans with it.’ Once again, the little girl stopped drawing and cocked her head briefly. She chose a red pencil and began working frantically. Another crashing sound exploded in the kitchen. ‘Oh my goodness! What is wrong in here today?! The gravy dish has just broken and spilled gravy all over the floor. And how did these green beans get moldy overnight?’ The little girl did not stop this time. She simply chose a yellow pencil and returned to her task. ‘Well, it looks like all I have for veg are some frozen French fries. I guess we could also consider ketchup a vegetable of sorts….’ The little girl’s face developed an impish grin. Contentedly, she calmly completed her drawing, while her mother finished preparing supper. When the meal was ready, her mother beckoned her to come and eat at the kitchen table. Hungry and satisfied, she took one last look at the page in her lap. On it, she had rendered a plump pink hotdog snuggled up in a fluffy brown bun and surrounded by golden French fries drenched in ketchup. ‘So, how was school today, ‘ her mother asked again. “Oh, it was okay,’ the little girl replied. ‘My teacher called me “gifted” again.’ 17 Oct 2017 |
Proudly powered by Weebly